


Hourglass

by tiamatv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (More Feels Than Plot really), (sort of maybe), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothing Kink, Corsetry, Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 09, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: When Dean thought about corsets at all in his younger days, he thought they were something girls wore just because they wanted to look pretty. (Okay, really damned sexy, but still: pretty.)Now, he knows better—but he still can't get the damned thing to tighten up right.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 41
Kudos: 215





	Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) for the really thoughtful beta—this was a flaily thing that I tossed out, and she really made it so much better! (Go give her works a peek, they are lovely!)
> 
> This is set vaguely, handwavily, sometime after season 9. It's not BDSM, not even remotely, but there are some mild ideas that may strike people that way. Or not! It takes all kinds. :)

Dean took a deep breath in, and out. In, then out.

He grimaced. The easy restraint of it wasn’t right—it wasn’t _quite_ right—but it was… close. Close enough? Yeah, maybe close enough for now, but maybe if he…

Dean glanced down the line of his body, fingering the little metal studs and catches of the front busk. Dean wasn’t as thin as he’d been once upon a time, but right now he didn’t actually care about that. And with the firm, flexible steel boning of the long-line corset propping him up and holding him in, it didn’t even matter—his belly looked lean and flat over where the shallow curve at the bottom almost met the top of his sweatpants, his waist a smooth dip.

There was still that little annoying _gap_ right at the top and the very bottom, though, a little ridge right under his pecs, ‘cause Dean _did_ have a waist but he didn’t have boobs… wait, he hadn’t put the thing on upside down again, though, had he? He wasn’t that much of a dumbass.

(Okay, so he wasn’t that much of a dumbass _anymore_. He’d been twenty-three, okay?! Satsuki had just about laughed her stage wig off, but she’d had to admit that okay, the boob curve on the corset she’d handed him to try on looked like it _might_ have sat on top of a bouncy ass, and Dean knew his ass was pretty damned bouncy.)

Dean reached back and stuck his fingers through the laces to see if he could tighten them at the bottom, but he couldn’t hold on to the trailing ends while he was doing that, and that just loosened them _more._ Dean craned his neck to look over his shoulder and glared at laces that he… couldn’t actually see.

Okay, so he wasn’t as flexible as he’d been once upon a time, either.

*_*_*_*

At twenty-three, when he thought about corsets at all—and after one particular issue of Busty Asian Beauties, he’d thought about them a lot—he kind of imagined that corsets were like garter belts, or something. Or fancy panties (oh, shut the fuck up; Dean hadn’t had a pair of _those_ on since Rhonda). Girls wore those sorts of lacy lingerie things ‘cause they were pretty and it made ‘em _feel_ pretty to show ‘em off, and that was all. He had not a single problem with that. Who would?

So at twenty-three, he hadn’t really been able to get in the beginning why Satsuki liked putting a corset on _after_ she got off stage. _After_ she’d peeled off all her clothes and ridden him like a pony.

He lay back in the pillows, sleepy and still a little drunk, and watched her wiggle and pull the contraption on. It wasn’t fancy or anything. There wasn’t any lace—it was a dull, matte, basic black, not even any little bits of shiny satin. It was almost _solid._ Like a bulletproof vest—so the long, trailing arcades of the laces making stripes against the pale skin of her back almost looked too delicate in comparison.

 _Like a weird, pretty torture instrument_ , his brilliant mind supplied.

“You really are like no other stripper I’ve ever met.” Dean didn’t consider any of that an insult. He knew a lot of strippers. He _liked_ a lot of strippers.

“Burlesque dancer, Dean. Not stripper,” Satsuki laughed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as she slipped together the little latches on the front.

“What’s the difference?” Dean slurred, almost managing to prop himself up on a pillow, and sort of failing at it.

Her dark eyes flashed at him in the mirror as she smiled, and reached back for the trailing ends of the laces behind her. “Power, mostly.”

He didn’t understand that at all. But even at twenty-three, Dean hadn’t been dumb enough to argue with a girl who could bend like that on stage wearing _that_ little and still enthusiastically ride him to gasping after. He _definitely_ wasn’t stupid enough to argue with a girl who pulled on the laces of her corset like that, tightening the straps to delicate diamonds crisscrossing her skin, and her waist to something he just wanted to put his hands on.

Which was maybe why he didn’t argue when she gave him a curious look and told him, “ _You_ should try one of my corsets. I bet you’d like it.” Then she smirked. “And _not_ even as a sex thing.”

Like the stupid horny kid he was, Dean joked, “ _Everything’s_ a sex thing when I’m around you, sweetheart.”

*_*_*_*

A decade and change later? Satsuki was still right.

Dean did like it. He had his own corsets, in his own fucking size and shape, thanks—just two. One was a dark grey, and with flexible spring-wire rods in the front and a stretchy story of mesh in the back. It looked mostly like a fancy back support, because that was what it _was._ And then there was the one that he was working on today— _heavy,_ and solid; it was the real deal, not some little stupid plastic thing. Dean didn’t wear it for _fashion:_ the rods in it were stainless steel, and the fabric covering them was just as thick as something like that _had_ to be to keep the metal from digging in. 

And it _wasn’t_ a sex thing, not really. So she’d been right about that, too.

Unfortunately? Dean was still a dumbass who couldn’t get this damned thing tightened up right by himself.

Dean didn’t have a mirror in his room, and he didn’t _have_ to do this today, but what the Hell, why not? Nothing was trying to eat his face, Sam was off at the farmer’s market and the last Dean had seen Cas, he’d had his nose buried in what was either an ancient spellbook or a leatherbound copy of Lord of the Rings. When else would he get some solo time to practice?

So he pulled on a t-shirt over the corset and smoothed it down—huh. With his shirt on, the line wasn’t exactly as smooth as it should be, but he couldn’t see the little gaps and lumps that had been bugging him anymore. It looked pretty good.

Dean brushed a hand down the—flat, now—plane of his belly and felt the solid line of support, the tiny little metal flecks of the latches down the front midline. There was no give when he pressed against it with his fingertips—then his palm.

Not bad.

Could still be better. He knew it could. But still, as Dean strode out into the hallway, just him being tucked in and straight-backed and _held_ , looking like nothing was different about him at all…

No, not bad.

Which, of course, was when he rounded the corner and bodily ran into an angel in a trench coat.

Seeing as how Cas _was_ an angel and things like the fucking laws of physics didn’t apply, it was _Dean_ —a couple of inches taller, a little broader, and definitely heavier, who bounced off him and hit the wall with his shoulder, rolling into it mostly just by instinct. He found himself with his back pressed to a doorframe of one of the other bedrooms, and Cas giving him a quizzical, startled look.

“Hello,” Cas said.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean gasped, and he was pretty sure it was the near heart attack and the impact of the wall, _not_ the corset he was wearing under his t-shirt and sweatpants. “We really gotta put a bell on you, Cas.”

Cas blinked, and, after a moment of rummaging, pulled something out from his trench coat pocket.

A tiny silver bell. The antique-looking kind with a handle and a little clapper, like something the Downton Abbey crew would’ve used to summon the butler back in Ye Olde Days.

Dean gaped at him.

Cas rang it, once, with a sweet little tinkling chime.

“I acquired one,” Cas told him, seriously. His pink lips pouted out in displeasure. “But I’m not sure what difference it makes, as you and Sam both still keep saying that.”

Dean _wheezed_ , and okay, laughing while he was bound up like this felt _weird_ when he couldn’t let his breath all the way in or out. Also not bad, though.

Cas kept looking at him, calm and slow, just waiting out Dean’s giggles. “There’s something… different, today, Dean,” he observed, and his head tipped to the side. “About you. What’s different?”

Dean’s chuckles took a nosedive off a very steep cliff. He straightened up his bent knees and pushed off the wall, hard. He would have taken a deeper breath—and he could take one, he really wasn’t laced up that tight, it just took a little more effort—if he weren’t trying so hard to look normal. Yeah, no, nothin’ goin’ on here, nothin’ to see, angel. “It’s Tuesday and no-one’s tried to kill us yet?”

“It could be that,” Cas agreed, with a thoughtful bob of his chin, “but I don’t think it…” He trailed off and peered closer. At Dean’s _face,_ though, not anywhere where Dean wouldn’t have wanted him looking—shit, maybe he really should have put a flannel on on top of his t-shirt. The corset was basic but it was _black,_ and he—

But after a second, Cas noted, with a satisfied-looking nod, “Oh, I see. Your posture is better. That’s unusual.”

Then he went on his merry Columbo way towards the library while Dean was wondering if he was blushing or not.

He wasn’t, or at least he wasn’t by the time he got to the bathroom, with its rows of mirrors and sinks and showers. The bathroom mirror didn’t really make it any better, though, and Dean scowled at his reflection over his shoulder as he tried to get his fingers in between the laces to tighten the top and the bottom properly—he knew he’d been able to do this before. It’d been awhile, but it hadn’t been _this_ difficult, had it?

He gave up eventually, and just put his shirt back on. The way the rigidity of the stainless steel rods held up his back, the way the heavy material kept him wrapped _in,_ was still pretty good anyway.

But the relief when he slipped a hand back to loosen the laces, the _release_ of breath when he undid the little hooks and pins at the front and carefully took it the rest of the way off, was still fucking amazing. Dean breathed in and out, deep as he could. He bent over to touch his toes—okay, okay, his knees, but who was looking anyway?—just to feel his spine curve.

He ran a finger down the tiny parallel lines that the steel stays in the front had drawn between his pecs and his treasure trail, just barely starting to fill back in. He reached further down to palm himself through his sweatpants—not all the way hard, no, just a comfortable half-chub. Nothing urgent, just kind of there.

Yeah. Not perfect, but still pretty good.

*_*_*_*

Dean didn’t get the opportunity to try it out again until a few weeks later—to be honest, he wasn’t really feeling a need for it, but there was nothing wrong with giving it another go. Kind of nice to be tucked in, held in tight and straight and unyielding.

This time, he tried to see if he could get the laces arranged properly _before_ he wrapped the corset’s heavy fabric around himself.

It didn’t work—once he pulled the center laces the corset tightened up at the middle and started doing its weird gap thing again on the top and bottom. Pulling harder just slid the middle strings deeper until the curves bit into his waist, and Dean liked being laced in pretty tight, but he wasn’t going for rearranging his insides or any such shit like that.

Even with his hands in the laces _and_ him peering over his shoulder into the mirror, he could get the top part to tighten up just right but couldn’t get the bottom to balance it. Or, if he tightened the bottom enough, there was this weird little gap pooching the middle where the laces met. Dammit. And his corset didn’t even have that sharp crease at the waist—it was what was called a romantic curve (eyeroll) with just a smooth long dip at the waist, and it had a larger rib and a narrower hip anyway. The damn thing _used_ to fit him—he’d seasoned it to just the level of curve and tightness he liked.

Dean grimaced and reached an arm back to try and smooth down the cloth flap that was supposed to cover his skin and keep the laces from chafing at it. But the damned thing had gotten wedged somewhere under the right edge. He twisted—

“Are you having trouble, Dean?” asked a deep voice just over his left shoulder, gritty as gravel under the Impala’s wheels.

Dean whirled towards the bathroom door. Which was _open_. And filled with the silhouette of a not-so-little and not-so-cherubic hot guy in a trench coat.

“Cas, if you come in here after I’ve locked the door again, I will _stab you_ ,” Dean hissed—temporarily forgetting that he _was_ in nothing but a plain black corset and boxer briefs, the dead guy robe draped over the towel rack. Personal space hadn’t been an issue for Cas in fucking _years,_ what the hell—

Cas blinked, unimpressed. “The door was not locked. When the door is open, you are normally brushing your teeth and spitting foam on the mirror as you converse with Sam.”

Okay, rookie move, Dean, goddamned fucking _rookie move_. Living in the bunker had really started to make him soft, and clearly this was the world’s way of making him remember that.

Before Dean could figure out any combination of things that included _‘Get the fuck out’_ and ‘ _if you ever mention any of this to Sam, I’m banishing you forever,_ ’ Cas inquired, calmly, “May I help?”

Dean’s brain stalled. “ _What?_ ” he asked, warily. Cas couldn’t be asking—

Cas gestured with a flick of his fingers towards Dean’s midsection. “With your fastenings. You seem to be having trouble with them.”

Okay, could be that Cas _was_ asking just what Dean thought.

Dean was so shocked he couldn’t even _swear,_ and if there was anything Dean knew how to do, it was cuss. His lips moved in complete silence before he blurted out, “What— _no_ , Cas, you can’t—"

Wait, this was Cas. Dean just needed to slow his goddamned self down. Cas probably thought it was some kind of new hunter harness. Or some kind of protective thing. Dean’s kind of _did_ look like one, actually—basic black, solid and matte, cotton-lined, no fancy satins or brocades or any of that nonsense.

Cas frowned, his eyebrows beetling up. He looked… _insulted?_ “Why not? You have helped me with my tie, when I’m finding it difficult. How is this different?”

Dean snorted, and crossed his arms before he thought about how stupid that might look—crossed arms over his bare chest, the heavy wrap of black matte cloth around his midline, the just-a-little-baggy dark grey of his boxer-briefs. But then they were already crossed, so what the fuck. He stayed like that. “Yeah,” he pointed out. “But Cas, I _know_ how to tie a tie.”

Cas blinked at him. “I know how to lace a corset,” he told Dean, like that should be perfectly fucking obvious.

Uh.

Okay, so Cas knew exactly what he was wearing.

Okay, so _no_ part of that was perfectly fucking obvious.

“What?” he demanded, finally. “Wait, how do you know… _what?_ ”

“I wore a corset in the 1900s, as I wear a tie now,” Cas told him, simply, with his head bobbed to the side like he was surprised he had to explain any of this to Dean. “The lumbar support was pleasant.” He reached up and touched the knot at his throat, frowning a little. “I have yet to find an actual purpose for a necktie.”

Huh.

It took Dean a really, _excessively_ long fucking second to realize that Cas had probably had a _female_ vessel then. Right? ‘Cause the image of Cas, with the thick shoulders Dean knew he had now under those oversized suits and his tent of a trench coat, with a little fawn-colored waspie cinched around his waist and framing the line of his slender hips and showcasing the way he always seemed to have just a little bit of a tan, was kind of… _huh_. That was actually kind of…

Shit, Dean really should be wearing more clothes to have this talk. Or maybe just wearing more than his underwear and a _goddamned corset._ Or maybe not having this talk at all. But _shit_ , they were having it, and now Dean was a little… curious, almost.

“Were you any better at lacing a corset than you are at tying a tie?” Dean joked.

Cas rolling his eyes at him, for some reason, made this feel less… weird. Weird? No, weird wasn’t quite the right word for it. But there was a challenge now in Cas’s shoulders and the dark eyebrow he was arching up at Dean— _are you afraid, Dean? What in the world are you afraid of?_ —sent Dean’s fingernails digging into his palms.

Cas was so intense about pretty much everything, but he was so damned _chill_ about this, like this gender bullshit didn’t make any difference to him at all… and guess what? It really didn’t.

Looking down at Cas’s raised eyebrow and unimpressed pretty face, Dean honestly believed that if he ever put on a leotard, high heels and a pastel purple tutu and went skittering around the bunker like that, _Sam_ might have a heart attack, but Cas? Cas would compliment him on the shade he’d chosen, and tell him it looked like a sunset he’d seen back when the dinosaurs were the newest fad on Earth.

(Not that Dean ever would put on a pair of high heels. Not again, anyway. They made his legs look fucking amazing, but _holy shit_ those things hurt. What the Hell was wrong with people?)

So the only bullshit going on here was _Dean’s_.

Maybe that was why Dean shrugged, then turned around and presented his back to Cas—back straight, because of course it was, he was being held up by fucking steel rods, but his shoulders thrown back, head up.

That didn’t do anything for the sudden, surprising shiver that trickled down his back when Cas stepped in—and he heard the bathroom door swing closed behind him. And lock with a soft ‘clunk.’

_Okay, there. Easy, Winchester._

The Men of Letters bathroom and shower room was a big space. There was more than enough room in here for half a dozen guys to stand and never so much as bump elbows. So that sure as Hell didn’t explain why all of a sudden, with one beat-up hunter and one intermittently fallen angel just standing around not even touching, everything in the room seemed a little bit closer and just a little bit too hot.

_This is a bad idea._

Like most of the times Dean had had that thought, he ignored it.

“Ah, I see.” Dean almost jolted forward as Cas’s finger traced up between the straps—oh. The protective back panel must have been shifted off to the side again… he felt the warm rasping slide of _touch_ and tried to suck in a sharp breath that he just couldn’t get as Cas stuck his whole hand under the base of the corset. His palm swept against the small of Dean’s bare back, easy as anything, as Cas gently relocated the panel to just underneath the laces. “The balance of your lacing is off. Here… allow me.”

This time, he was a little more prepared when Cas’s hand came to rest on him, broad palm and fingers spreading and steadying across the covered small of his back, and he felt a careful fumble and tug that was Cas gathering up the loose, looping pull laces. But the gentle tweak at the very top of his corset, right where the laces started their crisscross, felt good enough, startling enough, that he twitched a little bit.

“Easy breaths, Dean,” Cas murmured, and his voice was more coarse honey than gravel. “Slow.”

Yeah. He knew that. He closed his eyes and let himself be cinched in—braced by Cas’s one hand gripping solid on the two long tightening loops, one on each side, as he slowly made his way down the top crisscross of the laces. One pull. The next. The next. He could see it in his head—the two leaflets drawing closer and closer, pulled in by elegant diamonds of string.

Each pull tucked Dean's ribs up and in; each tug got everything just a little bit tighter. There was a delicate little shiver—not Dean, not really; the corset—every time one of the braided laces slid through the heavy metal eyelets, the cloth trembled. Cas gently stuck his fingers in between the cords and he wasn’t touching Dean’s skin, not with the protective panel there, but he could feel the gentle slip of callused fingers against cotton as Cas made sure nothing wrinkled, nothing pressed where it shouldn’t.

Now from the bottom, and this time Dean _did_ shiver as a hand swept across the bottom edge. The corset creaked, very softly. At no point did Cas let go of the controlling laces. It _did_ feel strange—he was still held in, of course, but the way Cas was doing it was very meticulous. He was tightening all the areas where Dean had gaps, where cloth and boning was arching away from skin, but it was _easier_ to breathe, now—the center laces at his waist, leading up to the control leads, were taking the slack that had been at his ribs and his hips before. Not for long.

“Almost finished. Do you want to hold on to something? To brace,” Cas asked, that rasp of a voice solicitous as ever, and now there was _no_ doing anything for Dean’s hard-on.

But he didn’t feel… embarrassed about it. Yeah, he probably would in a second, but right now, the control of his breathing was all the effort that he needed, the inside of his brain washed a pure, easy white with it. Dean inhaled a small breath and held it—then a larger one, as big as he could get. He was tucked in enough that it was still slow, it had to be, but it was the biggest he was going to get for a little while. “Don’t need to. Not too tight,” he warned.

“Of course. Deep breath in, Dean. Lean forward. I won’t let you fall,” and Dean, eyes still closed, obeyed, and set his legs, straightened his back. “Now breathe out.”

He couldn’t see Cas’s hands tangled tightly in the corset’s control laces, but he could feel them—one of each of Cas’s hands fisting them on each side, his knuckles pressed first to the small of Dean’s back, then the slow, meticulous draw of them, squeezing gently at Dean’s waist, first—but the pressure of it travelling both up and down, tightening against his ribs, tucking in just above his hipbones. For a second, with him leaning his weight forward and straining against the pull behind him, all he was being held up with was cords and an angel’s strength.

When Cas stopped, Dean let himself relax into it, but didn’t try to breathe—held it, held it, until he heard the neat rasp of laces being tied into a knot or a bow or something, right above the small of his back. He rocked a little as Cas’s fingers caught a handful of the lines and pulled—testing his work, first gently, then not gently. The corset’s slow constriction held. Cas tugged one more time and eased Dean back, balanced, until he was resting on both feet and not leaning forward onto the balls of them anymore.

“ _Good_ ,” Cas murmured.

 _Yes._ Yes, it was.

“Open your eyes, Dean. Look at yourself.”

Dean, held in, beautifully controlled, lifted his eyes to the mirror.

Fuck. Yes. _Perfect_.

The first thing that he saw wasn’t himself—it was Cas. Cas was watching him in the mirror over his shoulders, blue eyes enough to drown, and he looked pleased with himself—his full lips a little parted like they always were when he thought he’d done a good job, the dip in the top one pronounced. He looked intense and interested, but now he was a little flushed around the cheekbones, a hint of it down his neck—which, Dean thought distantly, was a little strange.

 _Then_ he saw himself.

This particular mirror in the Men of Letters bathroom—next to the row of sinks—was a funny length, and hung in a way that had always made Dean think that at least one of the designers had been shorter than the others and wanted to make sure he still always got to see everything he wanted to. It wasn’t quite Dean’s length, but this time, it was the perfect height to show Dean from the top of his head to the top of his thighs.

Dean’s hair was neat, but his expression was a wreck—cheeks tinted like he’d been running, lips parted, and his eyes shading dark, more brown than green. His shoulders were back and proud. The corset stopped right below the edge of his pecs, curving slightly up in the center but leaving his chest free, his nipples dark pink nubs over the dark edge. The five shiny hook-and-pin combinations of the busk at the center looked very bright against the matte black cotton, and he could see the contouring lines of the metal ribs—where they were nearly straight at the front but arched generously in at the sides.

The simple, curving black arch cupped his ribs the way it was meant to and silhouetted his hips, and his waist was meant to have a hand resting on it. There was a tiny gap of pale skin where the corset ended and the hem of his boxer-briefs began, his treasure trail a fine golden-brown line leading down into his underwear from where the smooth bottom curve of the corset sloped downwards.

Fuck, it felt amazing, yeah, but Dean looked _awesome_.

He definitely had more than a little of a hard-on showing through his boxer-briefs, but with how he was looking? Fuck, Dean would have been more surprised if he _hadn’t_.

Cas’s hand came to rest lightly on the accentuated, narrow dip of Dean’s waist. Dean almost jumped to see it resting there in their reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t feel the touch of the fingers. Through the corset’s heavy fabric and metal underpinnings, just the barest hint of weight.

The slide of finger pads over worn cotton made a soft _shhh_ noise as Cas moved his fingers up and down. Dean thought that maybe he was just testing his work, but of course right now it was just the corset doing all of it—the straight lines of rods up and down at his front and back, the flexible ones at his sides, pulling Dean in.

Cas’s hand slid up and forward and traced the uncovered midline of his sternum, where even Dean knew he had a hot edge of sweat starting to gather. He gulped and tried to think of… of… of anything but the fact that he was wearing nothing but grey boxer briefs and a _corset_ that Cas had just laced him pretty damned tightly into. Turning away to hide his hard-on—which was gonna start becoming _real_ obvious in his reflection any second now—was only going to make it _more_ obvious.

Then Cas’s fingers skirted sideways and a thumb and forefinger caught where one of Dean’s nipples—yeah, they were pretty perky, but they weren’t always _this_ perky—was saying hello.

This time, not even the corset could hide the sharp intake of his breath. “Cas, uh—” Dean squeaked.

“Yes, I see the appeal.” Cas continued sliding his warm palm sideways and up over Dean’s shoulder like he hadn’t just fucking _tweaked_ one of Dean’s nipples. But when he lifted his hand away, Dean had to bite down hard on an order that he put it back. “The silhouette of it is very… restrained. You look so elegant. How does it feel?”

He couldn’t quite get enough air. Dean slowed himself—closed his eyes to take small, shallow breaths. Shoved back into himself from where he’d been floating.

“What’s happening here?” He should have probably asked that earlier.

Cas, to his credit, didn’t insult Dean’s intelligence by playing dumb. “Should I stop?”

“Cas, you don’t…” Dean had never claimed to be good at words, and he _definitely_ wasn’t good at them when they actually mattered. With how Cas was staring at him in the mirror, he wasn’t even sure there were words to find. “You don’t have to—”

No-one had ever looked at Dean—loose-cannon hunter, dumb high school dropout—like that.

Well. No. That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true at all.

No-one _else_ had ever looked at him like that.

Cas bent in. Cas pressed his _lips_ against the crest of Dean’s bare shoulder, soft and warm, the barest shaky rasp of undeniably male stubble. The warm print of it shouldn’t have rocked Dean the way it did—but it did, and his knees shook. He kicked his legs apart because he had to, he had to brace, suddenly. He was held in tight, but his certainties were coming apart. His teeth clenched down.

Cas murmured, “Did I give you the impression that I was doing this because I _had_ to?”

Huh?

“I find you very… provocative, Dean. I always have, but never more than when you allow yourself to simply… _be_ yourself.” His hand came back, came around, and rested, splayed, on Dean’s covered stomach. He could almost feel the pressure of it. “Your soul is already very beautiful, but it pulses a little brighter every time you do, did you know?”

“Cas, I’m a _guy_ ,” Dean blurted, like he thought that should matter to someone who’d just said something, perfectly seriously, about his _soul._

Cas’s look at him in the mirror was pure bewilderment. “Are you referring to your humanity, or your gender, or your way of presenting yourself?”

Fucking what. “I’m wearing a _goddamned corset,_ man.” That Cas had just laced him into, so yeah, he knew that, too. What the hell was Dean saying? He didn’t even know.

“Yes,” Cas agreed. “And that is very provocative, too.” He didn’t step any closer—there was still space between their bodies—but he still had an arm around Dean, still had his hand splayed possessively over the flat plane of Dean’s stomach. “You are _very_ attractive like this. Should I not enjoy it?”

Cas looked confused. He looked… even a little _hurt_.

Dean knew what he should be saying. “ _What the fuck”_ or _“step back_ ” or _“boundaries._ ” He heard, far away, “ _I’m not fucking gay, okay,”_ like a sour spill in the back of his mind. He knew that the proper words here were “ _friends don’t do this.”_ “ _We’re just friends._ ” “ _I don’t want this._ ”

But he did. He did fucking want this, and wrapped up and restrained by nothing but his own goddamned choices, Dean was held in and honest, and he didn’t give two fucks about ‘proper.’ He didn’t say anything at all, and for once, none of that bullshit escaped Pandora’s box.

When Cas said, softly, “May I touch you?”

Dean answered, “ _Yeah_.”

Because who the fuck was he fooling, here, anyway? This was _Cas._

He didn’t moan, but his breath hitched a little when Cas reached forward again and gently thumbed at his nipple again. “You have two. Is one more sensitive than the other?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Or your ears? Or your feet? Multiplicity is strange.”

Feet? What? _Only_ a damned angel. “I dunno,” Dean admitted.

“Okay.” Cas nestled his face against the crook of Dean’s neck.

The left nipple was more sensitive, it turned out. But his right earlobe was. Or maybe that was just because it was _Cas’s_ teeth tugging gently at it, _his_ chin tucked against the curve of Dean’s neck. He watched the skim of Cas’s hand straying down the front of the corset, tracing boning, and rubbing, once, at one of the little loop-and-peg latches. Dean wondered what that hand would feel like on his stomach, or his belly button, or—

He didn’t have to wonder what it would feel like on the narrow line of hair that trailed down from his belly button and into his underwear. He found out. He had to stop just breathing through his nose when Cas hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his boxer-briefs. Dean’s cock wasn’t being held that tightly inside them, and he couldn’t have said if it was nerves or excitement, but he could feel his pulse all the way through his pelvis.

“Is this alright? Tell me it’s alright, Dean,” Cas whispered, and his voice was more a vibration than it was a sound.

Him and his consent. That suddenly meant something _very_ different, for Dean.

“Yeah, Cas. Very alright.” And the acknowledgement of whose hand was on him, the nickname that _Dean_ had given him, made Dean shudder—so he didn’t expect to be looking at Cas’s reflection in the mirror and watching him shiver, too. The motion of it was so human that he found himself asking, “Are _you_ okay?”

“Very,” Cas confirmed, and started easing Dean’s underwear down his legs. He didn’t take it all the way off, and maybe that would have been something Dean found funny, but then he was looking down the smooth black line of the corset and at his cock being held loosely in the cradle of someone else’s hand. Big, masculine. Familiar, unfamiliar. He was so hard he felt himself throb.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathed, and doubled over. Or as much as he could. The corset creaked around him as he bent at the hips. He grabbed the edge of the mirror, still looking down at the sight—dark inflexible cloth, his dick in Castiel’s fingers. The head of his cock looked purple against tan, curving knuckles. “Fuck, _Cas._ ”

“Should I unlace you?” Cas asked, and he put his other hand on Dean’s back. With Dean bent over like this, it felt like Cas could just press him down, just bend him a little further over, and—okay, what the Hell, not right now, Winchester. He’d take what he had _now_.

“Nah… nah, s’good,” and the easy restriction of his breath meant that the tight lines of steel and cloth were holding him in; he didn’t have to hold _himself_ in. All he had to do was grip the cold, sharp metal of the mirror’s edge with one hand, brace himself, and work on breathing—work on not just _coming_ into Cas’s hand, coming from one little petting stroke like he was fucking sixteen and had never been touched before.

Then Cas tightened his fingers, dry and callused, and started to move them in easy, shy little touches. It wasn’t tight enough—Dean murmured, “Hey, won’t break. _”_

Cas murmured, “ _Hmmm,_ ” and tightened his grip to a hold, not just a touch, and God, yes, _yes_.

Why was he working on not coming again?

It wasn’t quite right, it wasn’t perfect—the edge of the corset was digging into his hips a little from where he was bent over, the busking on the front was drawing hot lines down his stomach—but it was _really_ fucking good. Dean didn’t try to move—just worked on getting enough air without hyperventilating, not even thrusting into where Cas was slowly taking him apart with the deliberate slip and slide of his hand, all the way from base to tip with easy rotations of his wrist.

 _Very_ deliberate. Sonofabitch.

“Faster, Cas…” he groaned.

Cas murmured, “No. It will be better if it’s slow.” Before Dean could get the chance to ask him how the fuck Angel of the Lord Castiel, who thought protection referred to a fucking angel blade, could possibly know _that,_ Cas looped his other hand against Dean’s corset, flattening his palm against his stomach again. He tugged. “Lean back. Lean against me.”

“M’heavy,” Dean slurred.

“This is _me,_ Dean.” The tone of voice was gentle and implacable. He didn’t say he was an angel. Right now, that didn’t actually matter. “I will hold you.”

Cas did. He did hold him, even when Dean straightened back to his full height and peeled his fingers off the mirror’s edge, leaving the mark of a sweaty palmprint on its edge. He started relaxing back, and shit, Dean hadn’t realized that that meant that he’d be able to _see._

Dean could see almost all of himself in the mirror—the corset a dark show of curves and angles and glittering silver hooks molding him into a delicate hourglass, the parted flush of his lips and the half-closed gleam of his own eyes. His thighs were straining, muscle bunching through the boxer-briefs pulled down to his knees. He could _see_ his cock fucking in and out of Cas’s fist, the wet shine of his own precome as it beaded out of his slit—holy fuck he was wet, he didn’t normally get that wet—before Cas’s thumb swept it off and added it to the slick glide his hand was making down Dean’s shaft.

He could see Cas behind him, watching him, as always—pressed against him, familiar and smaller but so damned _strong_.

“See yourself, Dean. You’re so beautiful,” Cas whispered against the back of his shoulder, and Dean came—sudden, like a shock, like a sucker punch. He came loud, the echo of his cry ringing in his ears as he shook all over, splattered the mirror in front of them, back jerking and unable to arch. Cas’s hand caught some of his come and smeared it down his length, pulling on him in slowing tugs, slower and slower.

Cas eased him down away from the edge with little rubbing strokes, then barely a touch at all. When Dean was all done, limp and pinned between corset and angel and the effort of his own breath, Cas kept his hand in place—just cupping Dean gently in his whole palm even when he was going soft, like he could hold him in.

Cas eventually tucked him gently back into his boxer-briefs, but he didn’t step away—just stayed at Dean’s back, very close, pressed together from shoulders to thighs, his knees bumping into the softness at the back of Dean’s. His chin was hooked over Dean’s shoulder, and he had his eyes half-closed. No human would’ve been able to keep his balance like that, not with Dean’s weight on him, but Cas held it.

Dean watched him in the mirror—watched _them_ , fucked-out human in a corset and solemn angel in a trench coat, brainless and empty and _very_ content.

Contentment was a weird feeling, for him. He hadn’t really had much of that.

Cas stirred, and finally broke their gazes to look sideways. Dean realized his own eyes were dry and stinging from how long it’d been since he’d looked away, and started blinking to clear them. He didn’t realize until he looked back up that Cas had raised his hand and was studying the splatter pattern on his skin.

Before Dean could stop him, Cas lifted his fingers to his lips and poked the very tip of his tongue out to lap up a bead of the pale come dripping across the side of his palm and his wrist.

“ _Hmm_.” He made an interested noise, and did it again—a broader swipe, this time, then another, licking himself clean.

Dean would have gaped, but he was a little too light-headed still.

“I’m going to loosen your laces.” Dean made a soft noise of complaint, frowning, and Cas chuckled. “Just a little.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean grumbled finally, and he straightened until he wasn’t using an angel to prop him up anymore. His legs held him. That was a little bit of a surprise.

There was a careful, measured _tug, slip, tug,_ as Cas untied the main loops and eased laces out through eyelets. The vibrations of the corset as it loosened just a little, the sense of relief while still being held in, felt really good all the same. Dean took a deep, slow inhale, just to take it.

But that made the world start rushing back in. He gritted his teeth against it, tried to breathe himself down into white ease, into the slick feel of a hand moving up and down his length and a voice on his shoulder gritting out _“you’re so beautiful.”_ He’d had that—that had been _his_ , that had been real, and—

Cas turned him around, bodily, by the shoulders. The sight of his small smile, the awkward too-big stretch of his trench coat, and the intense blue of his eyes pressed down on the world again, tucked it back into the cinch of lacing and control. “Thank you,” he told Dean, serious as ever.

“What?” Dean brain was back off on vacation and it was not going to be turning that car around and driving home anytime soon. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to come back. “What for, why’re you—”

Cas slipped a hand behind Dean’s neck—his clean hand, Dean realized muzzily—and kissed him.

It wasn’t a claiming. It wasn’t rough. His lips were as soft as Dean had always thought— _imagined_ —and a little dry. His tongue was very gentle when it teased along the seam of Dean’s mouth, when it carefully toyed with the tip of Dean’s own tongue.

But the kiss didn’t go any further in until _Dean_ tilted his head. Until _Dean_ let out a tiny noise and sealed them together, coming in for it, falling into the way Cas’s hand on the back of his neck was holding him but not pulling, his tongue was touching but not taking, oh, he was _so_ fucking in for it.

It was _definitely_ a claiming.

“I love watching you orgasm,” Cas murmured, when they broke apart. “Can we do that again?”

And that was the fucking weirdest dirty talk that Dean had ever heard in his whole sordid history, but that was just… par for his life, he guessed.

But Cas was pink-cheeked—Dean hadn’t seen that before, not _ever,_ not even when he’d been human—and the silhouette of his rosy cheekbones was so fucking pretty against the blue of his eyes.

Dean glanced down, curious. Cas was hard in his pants. Well, now, how about that?

“Yeah, buddy, fuck, _yeah,_ but… maybe we oughtta take care of you, first?” Dean asked, and maybe he did sound a little too eager, but right now? Who the fuck cared.

“Mm…” Cas’s noise in his throat was small and _definitely_ interested, but he shook his head regretfully. “Another time, perhaps. My control is a little… uncertain. And I think right now it would be slightly overwhelming.”

Dean _was_ disappointed—well, a little. But the idea that Cas wanted to do this again—he’d _asked_ if they could—and maybe, _another time…?_ He hadn’t had a lot of things to look forward to in his life, and how true that was made Dean shuffle in place.

But he pulled his shoulders back and grinned, cocksure again now that he knew he was welcome. “’Overwhelming?’ What the heck. I dunno if I’m flattered being put on the same level as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Cas,” he teased.

Cas cocked his head at him, that familiar little avian sideways tilt that Dean secretly went looking for. “But I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, too.”

Dean waited for the punchline. And waited.

Cas just let that hang in the air and then raised an eyebrow.

Shit. _Shit_. Dean was in for it. He was so fucking in over his head right now.

But held tight by the look in Cas’s eyes, the soft, appreciative smile curving over his lips, the laces at his back and the firm support at his waist, Dean didn’t feel like he was going to drown.

“Maybe we should try putting _you_ in one of these, sometime. Bet you’d look good,” Dean joked, running a hand down the elegant line of his hip. “Bet you’d feel good, too.”

It maybe, maybe wasn’t a joke.

“I will. If you help me,” Cas told him, sweetly, and that wasn’t a joke, either.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd asked me six months ago if I would ever write Supernatural corset porn, I would have laughed my head off. So clearly the members of the [Profound Bond](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) server must be responsible for this. (It is a lovely place, come join us!)


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